


The Skin You Were Born In

by mizdiz



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: "It's that damn acorn; that double-capped acorn that he took out of his breast pocket and that now sits on his table where he makes his fishing lures and sharpens his knives. It's taunting him from across the room, reminding him of her, but not the her he has now. The her she used to be, before a young boy's head was put atop a pike and she sailed away on a boat to try and forget about it, right up until he drug her back to dry land."[general spoiler for s10 episodes 1-7]
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	The Skin You Were Born In

See, it's like a tattoo. After the scabs have fallen off and you've gotten used to what you look like with ink in your skin you tend to forget there's anything different. It's your new normal. But then sometimes, like becoming aware of the movement of your tongue or the fluttering of your blinks, you'll be hit by this awareness. You'll trace your fingers along the lines of the artwork, hearing the buzz of the gun, and suddenly remember that this is not the skin that you were born in.

That's what Daryl's scars are like. Most days, he doesn't remember them at all. He doesn't make a habit of standing in front of mirrors, but when he does the marks no longer faze him. When he scratches an itch on his chest and the tips of his fingers brush puckered flesh he doesn't think twice.

But then other times, his scars are the only thing he can see; can feel. When a pair of eyes that aren't his own land on them, for example, or on days when it storms and he gets that twinge in his back from his stiff muscles—he remembers them then. Sometimes, there isn't even an impetus. He'll simply exist and become aware that this is not the skin he was born in. This is the skin life has forced him to wear.

He sits now, shirtless on his couch that doubles as a bed, and he's so hyper-aware of those raised marks they might as well be glowing sigils spelling out the stories of his traumatic past. 

It's that damn acorn; that double-capped acorn that he took out of his breast pocket and that now sits on his table where he makes his fishing lures and sharpens his knives. It's taunting him from across the room, reminding him of  _ her _ , but not the her he has now. The her she used to be, before a young boy's head was put atop a pike and she sailed away on a boat to try and forget about it, right up until he drug her back to dry land.

She smiled so easily yesterday afternoon, ribbing him as he missed his target over and over again, and he hadn't even cared that he was bad at the game, because every shitty throw made her familiar again. She was  _ there _ , and he could recognize her, and god it felt like heaven to see his Carol break through the callous, broken shell he's been living with.

She's going to torture that whisperer. And she gave him an out, but he's going to torture him too, and try and pretend it doesn't remind him of what it feels like to have your body broken by another. Doesn't she remember? Doesn't she worry her violent hands are echoes of her abusers trying not to give her up?

He misses her softness; that gentle lilt in her voice she gets when she tells him he's worth something. The Carol who tugged him back home again and again, in a way he could never master with her.

He misses his Carol who smiles at a double-capped acorn.

The scars on his back burn.

*

He's mad at her. Furious, even, and he doesn't know how to rectify that because he doesn't ever get  _ angry _ at her. The anger is always a secondary emotion, covering up insecurity or loss, but today he's raging, trying to maintain his grip on the very end of his rope, but his hands are slipping.

They're standing at the edge of the border, where she says Lydia ran off. Daryl can't blame her—he would have done the same thing if someone had used him as a pawn. But damnit, Carol knows better! She knows as well as he does that the skin Lydia wears is not the skin she was born in, and she knows what that means. How it feels.

They've hardly spoken since they've trekked outside of Alexandria's gates, on a quest to find a scared, shattered girl, and time must be repeating itself, because he's been here before, only this time it's  _ his _ girl out there, and she's the one vowing to find her. 

Hopefully it'll turn out better than it did the last time.

"Daryl," she says while he scours the ground for tracks. Her voice is doing that lilt, but something about it is off, and he knows whatever she's gonna say is not about tactical strategy or the mission at hand, and he doesn't want to hear it.

"Mm," he grunts, refusing to give her more, but she takes it anyway.

"I'm sorry."

And god, does that bring his blood to its boiling point. Sorry for what, exactly? Which part? The part where he nearly got on his knees to beg her to spare this girl more suffering, only for her to refuse to hear it? Or maybe she means she's sorry for how her bloody fist looked like every hand that's ever struck him? Maybe she just means she's sorry for leaving the best parts of herself on that boat.

"It's done," he says, crouching down to examine a shoe print in the grass. It's hard to see in the dark, even once his eyes have adjusted.

"We'll find her.  _ I'll _ find her." He doesn't dignify that with a response, trying to tame the explosion building inside him, but she just won't quit. She says, "We'll get her back, and then we'll able to focus on finding the horde."

_ The horde. _

That tears it. He rounds on her now, fire blazing.

"How is that still where your mind's at?" he asks, incredulous. "How can you, of all people, be so damn blind?"

"Daryl—"

"No. Fuck this. Fuck it all, I'm done with this shit. I'm done sitting back and watching you tailspin. You're on a goddamn war path, and you're taking innocent bystanders down with you, yourself included. Your  _ real _ self. What if you don't walk away from this when it's all said and done, huh? What if this is a suicide mission with collateral damage?"

"If that's what it takes." She says it so steady, staring him dead in the eye, and he wants to scream.

"That's it then? You're so wrapped up in this bullshit that you'll go down without thinking about what you're leaving behind?"

"This is bigger than you and me, Daryl. This is to protect everything we've built."

"No," Daryl says, voice low. "That ain't what this is about."

"The hell it isn't."

"It ain't. It never was."

"Don't stand there and decide what my motivations are, like you know me better than I do."

Oh, well that's just a load of horse shit. Of  _ course _ he knows her better than she knows herself. 

This is getting them nowhere. He decides to pull out the big guns.

"Carol," he says slowly. "You know that, no matter what happens, whether you destroy that horde or not, it ain't ever gonna bring him back."

She steels herself in place, the fury in her eyes matching his, her upper lip curling, her hands clenched at her sides.

"Of course I do," she says, her tone an icy cold whisper. "Fuck you." 

Good, he thinks, good. Let her start to feel it.

"We all have lost somethin'. You've lost more than most, more than me, don't think I don't see that. You've earned yourself some hatred, but this ain't the way, Carol. It ain't."

"We have to take her down."

" _ We _ do? Or  _ you _ do?"

Carol shakes her head, like she simply can't believe him, a nasty, humorless smile on her face.

"Just because I'm the only one willing to act doesn't mean—"

"That ain't true," he says, cutting her bullshit excuses short, because he  _ so _ doesn't want to hear it. "You want to pretend you're bein' a hero, but all you is is reckless."

"I'm not trying to be a hero."

"You're not tryna be anything. That's the problem. You're tryna be this big, blank slate, like you're some logical mother fucking robot who ain't gotta feel nothin', but it's  _ bullshit _ , Carol. All of it. Every last bit." He sighs deeply, and mutters, "I shoulda never taken you off that boat."

"Why did you, then?"

"'Cause I missed you," he says honestly. "But you're standin' right in front of me and I miss you even more, so what the hell's the point if all it got us to was here?"

She fiddles with the twine bracelet around her wrist.

"I wanted us to run away."

"That's what you always want. Running away's your go-to move." He takes one step closer to her, not in her space but threatening to be, as he tells her softly, "You're a momma who's lost every baby she's ever had, and there ain't nothin' that hurts worse, I'm sure. But this ain't you, sweetheart."

"Maybe it's who I am now," she says. She blinks and tears fall down her cheeks. She doesn't move to wipe them off.

Daryl remembers the double-capped acorn.

"Nah," he says resolutely. "She's still in there. She's just busy nursin' her wounds."

Her lower lip trembles. She whispers, "I miss him, Daryl. I miss all of them. More than anything."

And then the floodgates open. She hauls in a shaky breath, and exhales a sob, face scrunching up and tears falling faster, and Daryl pulls her to him in an instant. And she cries. God, does she cry, sobs wracking her whole body, and she can't seem to catch her breath. He cups the back of her head and rocks her gently, burying his face in her hair. Her arms wrap around his waist, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping her upright. And just like that, Daryl's anger dissipates, replaced but an aching sadness as her pain guts him.

He doesn't tell her it's okay, because it isn't. There's nothing okay about the things that have happened to her. Instead, he does the only thing he can do, and that's be there. He's there for her as she purges it all like poison.

He doesn't move a step until she's cried herself dry; not until the final hiccuping breath. She pulls away, just far enough to take hold of the collar of her shirt and use it to wipe her wet face. He keeps his hands around her, one splayed out on her upper back, the other rubbing slow circles on her scalp. She finally looks up at him, and when she meets his eye he sees her—the real her—clear as day.

There are monsters right across this border they stand at; human beings who literally wear skin they weren't born in. What a terrifying world the two of them live in. What a terrifying world they've always lived in, he thinks, suddenly aware of every scar on his body like he just remembered he had a tattoo.

But he has her. And damn, he hopes she stays. In case she doesn't, though, he needs to let her know how much he loves her before she disappears. She's staring at him with big, wet eyes, and he can feel her hot breath on his neck.

He doesn't give himself time to overthink it, too overwhelmed with her return to let his mind run around in an endless circle of ways this could ruin everything. All he does is dip his head that short distance and place the gentlest of kisses on her lips. 

They stand like that for a beat or two, neither one putting anything into it but the soft touch that it is. He pulls away, a teeny tiny smacking noise coming from the broken kiss.

He doesn't say anything about it.

Neither does she.

Carol gets herself together, and they go back to the search.

*

Lydia is home safe, now. Daryl sits on the edge of her bed and strokes her hair until she falls asleep. There was no way she was going back into that cage.

She sleeps like he does, curled in a fetal position like she's bracing herself for the next blow. It's the skin she's been forced to wear. Skin never goes back once its been changed.

Blowing out the candle, Daryl sees himself out, keeping the door cracked to keep her from feeling trapped. She's a wild child, used to the forest, and he knows better than most, how confining walls can feel when you've spent your life living among the trees.

He starts towards his basement, where he's made his own little space as comfortable as it's ever going to be, but he hesitates, eyes drifting towards Carol's room.

A split second decision later, he's standing outside her door, knocking softly, not really expecting an answer. Maybe even hoping there won't be one. To his surprise, however, he hears shuffling inside, and a moment later she opens the door, looking at him expectantly.

He didn't think this far ahead.

"I'm okay," she supplies for him when he doesn't say anything. He nods.

"Good," he says lamely, grimacing at his own stupidity. Remembering the feel of her lips has got him jittery like a teenage boy with a crush, and she must see it on him, because she gives him a small, knowing smile.

"Do you want to come in?" she asks. 

His brain traffic jams, too many emotions hitting him at once. 

"I'm not…" He falters, rubs the nape of his neck, and tries again. "I don't know what I'm doing," he says. If she could be so raw with him earlier, the least he could do is return the favor.

"Me either," she says. "Come in?"

She says it with that lilt, the genuine one, and that means she's still here. This is still his Carol, and his Carol is his safe place. He doesn't need to be afraid. She stands to the side to grant him entry, and he takes it, stepping in and trying not to audibly gulp at her bedroom door closing shut behind them.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he waits for direction. Carol takes a seat at the end of her bed, and pats the space beside her. Hesitating only a moment, he joins her. They're shoulder-to-shoulder and even though they aren't touching it feels remarkably close.

"I'm sorry," she says, and this time it doesn't make anything rage within him, because this time she means it. "It hurts, Daryl, everything hurts when I make myself feel it, but I'm gonna try, okay? For you."

"I'd rather you do it for  _ you _ ."

"I can't yet. We'll have to compromise."

"Okay," Daryl says, happy that she's willing to try, even if she isn't able to see she deserves to heal for her own benefit. He scratches at a stain on his ratty pants, both dreading and wanting the elephant in the room to be addressed.

"About the other thing," she says tentatively. Daryl braces himself. "Did you mean it?"

Chewing on his lower lip, he forces himself to look at her. He nods.

He'd never meant anything more in his life.

"Me too," she says, and Daryl's heart jumps up into his throat. He tries to swallow it back down so he can speak, but his efforts are futile, and his only choice is for her to decide where they go from here. She asks, "Would it be okay...would you mind showing me you meant it again?"

He doesn’t mind at all—is enthusiastic about the prospect, in fact—but that doesn’t mean he’s not terrified. It’s silly, really, how he can battle head-on with a monster that could kill him with a single bite, but the thought of kissing a pretty girl makes his palms sweaty. 

It takes gathering every ounce of his courage to bridge that gap between them. At first, he’s as chaste as the first time, but Carol doesn’t let him remain that way for long. She firms up her lips and presses back into him, and he reaches out involuntarily to place a hand on her thigh to ground himself. It’s been years upon years since he’s done this, and he wasn’t exactly a pro when he had, but when she parts his lips for him, all his reservations fly out the window as he melts into her. 

She has her hair down, pulled to one side, and he holds her behind the ear, tangling his fingers in it. It’s soft and intimate, and suddenly he understands why she likes giving him haircuts so much. She feels her way up his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, and slides her tongue over his, trying to get even closer.

It’s been almost a decade—that’s how long he’s been holding this torch—but the payoff is more than worth it, as heat blooms in him that has nothing to do with anger. She breaks the kiss, and he shamelessly tries to follow and get her back, until she presses her mouth against his jawline, and the fingers still gripping her thigh tighten. 

He lets her explore his face and neck with curious lips, until he realizes he’s probably allowed to do the same thing to her, and that sounds so much better. He moves his head abruptly, and they bump noses, making her giggle, which is such a beautiful and strange sound that he doesn’t even have his wits about him to be embarrassed. He copies her, kissing her all over, settling in over her pulse point and revealing in the thump-thumping of her heart. 

Somehow, her hands find the buttons of his shirt. He stiffens at the implications, and in his ear, she asks, “Okay?”

He’s going to make a fool of himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But also her hands are against his chest and he really wants to know what they feel like without the thin fabric keeping them away from him. 

“Okay,” he says, and she wastes no time undoing his buttons. Pushing his shirt open, she splays her hands out along the fine hair on his pecs, and already her touch is overwhelming. Overwhelming, and somehow, not enough. Very slowly, he moves his hands to her own shirt, and pauses there.

“Yes,” she says to his unasked question. He undoes her shirt, not as quickly or elegantly as she had with his, and pushes it off her shoulders. She shrugs it the rest of the way off, and, looking him right at him, reaches behind herself and unsnaps her bra. There’s a wicked glint in her eye as she waits for his resolve to weaken, and she doesn’t have to wait long. He can’t help himself from looking, his breath suddenly shallow at the sight of her breasts.

Not sure if he’s meant to touch her or not, he’s grateful when Carol kisses him again, entwining herself around him, bare flesh against bare flesh, and it’s a lot. Like, a  _ lot _ . He makes a noise in her mouth that isn't like him at all, and when he runs his hand up her spine she makes a small mewling sound, and the two of them are now communicating is this brand new language. 

“Touch me,” she tells him. He wants to thank her for knowing he needs to be granted permission first, but he’s too distracted by, well, being granted permission. He slips his hand between them and glides over one of her breasts, gentle, getting the lay of the land. He cups her then, brushing his thumb against her taut nipple, and she inhales sharply, digging her nails into his shoulders.

She pulls away completely then, and for a moment he’s worried he went too far, until he realizes she’s undoing her belt. Mouth going dry, Daryl takes this opportunity to untie his laces and toe off his boots. He turns his attention back to her, who now has her zipper down, and he can see the waistband of her panties. 

“Undress me,” is her next order. It’s a simple command, but clothes never seemed more daunting than they do right now, as he fumbles with her pants, trying and failing to pull them down gracefully. She laughs at him, but it’s good-natured and sweet, and she grants him mercy by kicking them off the rest of the way once they get to her knees. Now she’s just in her panties, and he reaches for them, but she takes him by the wrist to still him.

“You first,” she says.

When was the last time he was fully nude in front of someone else? He stuffs his insecurities down as far as they’ll go, and lets her slide his pants off and onto the floor. Now they’re at a stand still, both in their underwear. Her breasts are on display, and he’s hard as a rock and it’s clear as day. Biting her lip, she scoots up to the top of the bed, and lays on her back, watching him with hooded eyes.

It only takes him a moment to follow, crawling up towards her. She opens her legs to let him kneel in between them, and he hovers above her with his hands on either side of her. He kisses her on the mouth, using it to give him the courage to trail kisses down her neck, along her collar bone, and on her breasts. He swirls his tongue around one of her nipples, and she hums deep in her chest, clawing at his back, and suddenly he remembers his scars.

She has them too, of course, scattered across her body in varying stages of age. And it’s not like she doesn’t know his are there. It’s not so much the vulnerability that’s getting to him. It’s just that his are so  _ ugly _ .

She senses his hesitation, and lifts his chin up, brows knitted together in concern. “What is it?” she asks. 

“Nothin’, it ain’t nothin’, just, you know, sorry, um…” He clears his throat. “Sorry for this.” He does an all-encompassing gesture at his body, and she has the audacity to laugh.

“Daryl,” she says, before he has the chance to be offended. “Trust me when I say there isn’t anything about how you look that you need to apologize for.” She takes a strand of his hair between two fingers and twists her mouth. “Except maybe your need for a haircut. How much longer are you gonna hide from my scissors?” 

“You don’t gotta pretend,” he says, not taking the bait with her joke. Her face grows serious.

“I’m not,” she says. “You’re beautiful.”

Daryl snorts. He’s been called a lot of things in his day, but beautiful sure as hell ain’t one of them. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says sarcastically, but she shakes her head, putting a hand on his cheek.

“You aren’t hearing me,” she says. “There is nothing about you I don’t love. I hate where your scars came from, but don’t think for a second that they ruin you.” 

Daryl considers her words, playing with them in his head, not sure he believes them. But then he sees the way she’s looking at him, with this bright, intense adoration. She’s looking at him the way he looks at her, and his scars have felt like burdens before—they’ve felt like hatred, and pain, and sorrow—but something they’ve never felt before is worshipped. But that’s what she’s doing—she’s worshipping his body, not in spite of his scars, but because of them.

This isn’t the skin he was born in, but that’s okay, because it’s the skin she loves him in.

Refueled, Daryl kisses her with more urgency, rubbing himself up against her, two thin layers still keeping them apart. This will be over before it really even begins, he knows, and he’s not about to let her leave this disappointed.

“Show me,” he says—his first and only command. In response, Carol lifts up her hips, and he takes the hint, tugging her panties down and off her feet.

She guides his hand down, and she’s wet as hell. A flush of pride goes through him when he thinks about her being this turned on because of  _ him _ . Did any of her other guys get her this wet? He hopes not. No other girls have ever gotten him this hard.

The first finger goes in easy, her muscles contracting in response. She lets him explore the inside of her, before leading him up to her clit. It’s engorged and pulsing under his touch, and she moves the pad of his thumb to press against it, and helps him make slow, light circles around it. He gets the hang of it, and she leaves him to his own devices as she leans back against the bed and moans, low and quiet. 

Feeling brave, he uses his other hand to slip inside her again. She makes an soft “ah” sound at the sudden added sensation, and it spurs him on to add a second finger. It’s a bit like the “pat your head and rub your belly at the same time” game, trying to maintain the gentle touch on her clit with the rough movement of his hand against her walls, but it’s worth it for the way she writhes beneath him. 

He can actually feel her orgasm. Her muscles start spasming, and his hand is soaked, as she tenses up, arching her back, trying and failing to muffle herself as wave after wave hits her. He keeps the motions going until she swats him away, his touch becoming too much on her most sensitive spots. She’s honest-to-god trembling, head lolling to the side while she catches her breath.

“Good?” he asks, hating himself even as he says it, but he needs to know. 

“Pfft,” is what she has to say to that, grinning at him, relaxed like he hasn’t seen her in years. He maintains eye contact as he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks the taste of her off of them. She wets her bottom lip with her tongue, groaning at the sight. 

“I want you,” she says. Daryl’s cock twitches.

“Ain’t gonna last long,” he warns her. She waves a dismissive hand.

“Don’t give a shit, just...please. I wanna be close to you.”

It’s not like he needs convincing. He shucks his boxers off, so much of his blood in his dick that he doesn’t have any working brain cells left to tell him to be nervous. He positions himself in the V of her legs, and leans down to kiss her deeply, sticking his tongue in her mouth to make sure she can taste how fucking delicious she is.

He groans against her lips when he enters her. Her soft, wet walls take him in and grip him. She’s warm and tight, and it’s like his every nerve ending is firing at once, encompassing his entire headspace. And then he starts to move, and he can feel it from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, blood rushing in his ears, heart pumping in triple-time. 

“I missed you,” he says, tucking his head against her neck, their bodies flush together as he thrusts into her. “I missed you so goddamn much.”

She runs her hands all over his body, all over his marked skin, hooking a leg up over his waist, letting him go in even deeper. She’s panting, he’s trying to think of everything he can to keep from going off, but it’s a lost cause. She feels too good, and he loves her so much, and it’s been too many fucking years of waiting, goddamnit. Who can blame him?

She doesn’t seem to. When the heat builds and finally releases, she simply pets his hair and rides it out with him, kissing him wherever she can reach. He sees goddamn stars. That’s how good it is—he sees a bunch of cliched, fucking stars, like cumming inside her is such a trip that it lets him see the universe in its totality. 

He lay on top of her until it gets too hot, and then he merely rolls over onto his side and gathers her in his arms, nuzzling against her own marked skin. 

It’s not the skin she was born in, but he’ll take her in anything. 

He’s just glad to have her back.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote 80% of this on my phone while half asleep after working my night shift, and then i wrote the other 20% on my computer half asleep after working my night shift bc my fingers were getting tired. this is all to say, don't take this too seriously. i wrote it while very tired.
> 
> scrap metal fans, quick update: so gas gauge should be updated tomorrow, 11/18 (meaning maybe the middle of the night). last week i was vomiting my brains out, but i also have just gotten out of the rhythm of meeting deadlines, but i think i figured out a system that will work to keep my updates regular again. (on my life, i made a fucking gold star sticker chart for myself like i'm seven gd years old. whatever works, right?) 
> 
> tl;dr: gas gauge will be updated tomorrow or else i get a red sticker instead of a gold one, and i can't have that, so if that's of interest to you, keep an eye out.
> 
> aight, i need to go the fuck to sleep. 
> 
> toodles, mon noodles,
> 
> -diz


End file.
